Work
by RochelleRene
Summary: Season 7: What if House had just returned the damn hairbrush?
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's note about this fic: I have only recently been able to re-watch seasons 7 & 8, mostly out of curiosity about if I'd watch the eps differently, after all this time. Short answer… no. But it did spark a fic idea—What if House had just returned the damn hairbrush?**_

 _ **Author's random note: A few of you who get notifications when I publish have asked me about one I recently posted then took down a couple hours later—"Leaves Change." Sorry about that. It was me dipping into writing about House again and I was tipsy when I wrote/posted and quickly decided it needed a lot more work. Lesson… Don't drink and fic. (Write them, anyway. Reading them drunk is safe. LOL)**_

 **Chapter 1**

House limped. Throughout the last near-decade of his life, everywhere he went, he limped. The people closest to him barely noticed anymore; the limp was as much a part of him as his nose or his voice. Even he himself forgot about it. He got around with the limp the way Cuddy got around on stilettos or Taub had to take three steps for everyone else's two. But sometimes, in some contexts, he was very conscious of that limp.

House limped up Cuddy's walk toward her front door. Wilson waited in the car behind him, and House held the hairbrush—the final remnant of their official romantic relationship—tightly in his grasp, preparing himself to hand it to her and walk away, back toward the status quo. And goddammit, he wished he didn't limp, so he could walk away with some semblance of dignity and grace, and not like the wounded man he was.

As he approached the porch he saw the… the what? The party? The date? The gathering, at any rate. He saw Cuddy laugh and touch some good-looking guy on the shoulder, then practically dance toward the kitchen with a pile of plates. And there he was, limping up to her door with her precious hairbrush.

Something shifted inside House right then. Somehow he was able to see the trajectory of his life, specifically his life with this woman, in high relief, as if he could reach out and touch remembered moments. He rang her bell.

Cuddy came to the door and when she saw it was him she looked surprised, sheepish, and steeled all at once. "Hi, House," was all she said, as she raised her eyebrows in inquiry. He answered by holding out the hairbrush for her to take. "Thank you," she said quietly, looking in his eyes for more. "I'd invite you in, but—"

"No, you wouldn't," he interrupted. "And that's fine. But I need you to know that I quit."

Cuddy's hand went to her hip and he saw her sigh a little. "You quit what, exactly?" she said, with a hint of exasperation.

House heard people laugh inside. He sucked in his lips for a moment, but stared at her evenly. "This. Our, whatever, relationship. The cycle we're in. My job." He saw her brow furrow. "Only the last one really concerns you."

"What do you mean, House?" she asked, skeptical and irritated.

"Consider this my—What's today?" He glanced at his phone. "My two hours' notice. See ya… well, maybe never, I guess." He turned and started limping down the walk, trying to garner as much of an actual stride as his body would allow.

"God, House. I don't have time for this right now," she called to his back. "I'll talk to you about whatever it is you want later, okay? I'm not trying to be a bitch here, but I have people over." House didn't pause walking. He got to the car and looked at her briefly over the roof. She was standing in her doorway—gorgeous, confused, and fidgeting.

"Bye, Cuddy."

 **[H] [H] [H]**

Wilson and House were sitting at the bar, finally. Wilson had helped House clean out his office, nervously oscillating between hand-wringing caution and supportive cheerleading. For every "Are you really sure?" he uttered, he also proclaimed, "I think this is good for you. A fresh start."

The truth was—House was trying to explain to Wilson over beers and darts—he didn't need a fresh start so much as some kind of interruption to the pendulum's swing. He liked his job, and even his team. He'd have liked to stay where he was, all things considered. But working with Cuddy had just gotten too hard, mainly because it worked in her favor.

"She may have dumped me, but she doesn't want to let me go," House explained. "She always wants to know I'm in the wings there, in case she changes her mind."

Wilson considered what he was saying. "You say this like you two were an officially on-again, off-again couple. Maybe with time, a new post-breakup dynamic would develop."

House shook his head as he took a swig from his bottle. "Even before we got 'official,' she did this. We'd get to the edge of something, and it would go all wrong, but she never wanted to shut down the possibility entirely. That's why when I'd almost blow up my life—jail or Vicodin—she'd swoop in at the last second if she was really going to lose me."

Wilson threw his final dart, then went to collect them. "Or, and I know this is out of left field, she loves you."

"It's not about love, Wilson." House threw his dart. "It's about actually doing it. Either you're in or you're out. She always wanted to straddle me. And not just in the hot way."

"What about when you went over the cuckoo's nest?" Wilson pointed out as House continued throwing his darts. "She seemed to move on then. And you were the one who couldn't handle it."

House sighed as he went to collect his darts. "Exactly my point. When I was out of her life, she moved on. And I did too, a little. But then I went back to work and I couldn't handle us not being us. And she, much as she protested, was happy with that."

"She got engaged, House. It hardly seems like some kind of strategic move. I don't think Cuddy's so juvenile as to fake an engagement to get your attention."

"No, but she does crave tidiness and 'rightness' enough to get caught up in the picket fence and dinner party conversation Lucas was peddling."

"Okay," Wilson relented. "So why did she end it?"

"A-ha!" House said. "That's what I realized. She ended it because I ended it. I gave her my blessing, we screamed ourselves out of each other's lives, and then she saw a future without me in it."

"So she ended her potential marriage, created tons of emotional chaos, and ran over to your place just to keep you on her hook?"

"It's addiction, Wilson. She wants something she believes is bad for her. You can resist it, but eventually you face the fear that maybe nothing else can make you feel that way. And at that point, you do stupid things."

"So trying a relationship with you was stupid?"

"Clearly!" House said, as if Wilson were an idiot.

"Maybe it was… an experience. A valuable era of your lives."

"It was moronic," House concluded. "Look, Cuddy and I are attracted to each other, on a million levels. I even think you could call it love. But I said it once and I'll say it again. We don't work. Not as a couple and not—I finally realize—as whatever else we try to be. If either of us has a shot at anything besides something that doesn't work, we gotta get away from each other."

"Huh," Wilson grunted, digesting his theory. "We'll see how _that_ works.

 **[H] [H] [H]**

She hadn't believed it. She really hadn't. Until she stood there in his empty office, she'd thought he was bluffing or starting up some new game. But standing there then, the full reality of what he'd said hit her. She did not have the assurance anymore that she would see him nearly every day, or at least have the excuse to call him if she didn't, on professional grounds.

Standing there in that glass room, with no chair or lamp, no ball or mortar and pestle, she suddenly felt the absence of him with such profundity, it made her nauseous. Given this situation, how would she see him again? That is, without putting herself out on a limb and admitting she needed to see him.

Foreman came into the office. "What's the plan?" he asked, never one to beat around the bush. He'd startled Cuddy.

"Um… I'm not sure yet."

"If you're shutting the department down, we need to know. But, with all due respect to House, I don't think that's necessary. I can run it."

Cuddy looked away from the emptiness, right to Foreman. It suddenly hit her that the whole reason she had this department was not purely on its own merit. She'd created it for House. To keep him close. Now it was just an empty cage.

 **[H] [H] [H]**

House opened his door to find Cuddy standing there. He'd expected this at some point, so he was prepared and immediately braced himself for any emotional impact that was coming his way.

"Hi, House." Her voice had started with a forced casualness, but then turned hesitant.

"Cuddy."

They stood there in silence for a moment.

He cleared his throat. "I'm gonna move now cuz I don't have great memories off this whole thing," House said, gesturing between them, positioned in his doorway. "Come in," he added, walking back to the couch. "Don't slip on the remnants of my heart on the floor there."

"Is that really necessary?"

He didn't look at her. "You want to know how I feel." He looked up pointedly, "Right, Cuddy?"

She sat on a chair across from him. He continued staring at his television. "Can you turn that off?" she asked wearily. She saw the muscles in his jaw clench and he waited a moment, but then shut it off. He dropped the remote on the couch, but continued staring at the blank screen. Cuddy sighed. "I want you to come back to work."

House blinked, but didn't look at her. "You know as well as I do about getting what you want."

"I can get you another team member. Cut your clinic hours." Silence. "House, what can I do to make this work?"

"You don't get it."

She sighed again. "What don't I get? What are you after?"

"You don't get to have me," he told her harshly, looking at her finally, his face a cross of hurt and anger. Cuddy was startled by his response. He continued, "This is how we work, Cuddy."

"How we work?"

House looked tired. "I want you. You want me. But instead of making that work, we just circle each other in an endless loop."

"House, this is strictly professional."

"Oh, cut the crap, Cuddy!" he snapped. "You always delude yourself that it's professional. But when I have been my most unprofessional, you come for me."

"House, I…" She gathered her thoughts. "I care about you. I want to help you."

"Thanks," he said sarcastically. More silence. He started muttering, almost to himself. "Tritter. Vogler, My leg, even. The methadone." He ramped up and she listened. "You keep me at arm's length until you're backed in a corner. That's when you can love me, Cuddy. Even that night." He paused and Cuddy waited. "I'm an idiot," he lamented. "You were fucking engaged. And you hid it from me. You hid moving in together. Because you can't end this," he proclaimed. "And then I found out and you knew it was going to end. We had that fucking fight and I gave up on you." He looked at her. "And you knew I did."

"I was worried about you."

"Bullshit. You were worried about _us_. You were worried I'd do exactly what I did—go home, get stoned, and resign myself to getting over you. And you don't want me to get over you."

"I don't want you hurting, House," she defended. "I'm not a monster."

He rubbed his face and took a sip of his drink. " _You_ don't want to hurt. You want me available for when you're ready, when you want to test me out. But you won't actually let yourself have me. You shut me out with silent treatment, pick apart everything I do with you, until it makes no sense anymore. But still you want me available, in case you change your mind."

She sat there and considered if he was right. She remembered how during the "official" relationship, she couldn't stop looking at everything that was wrong, doubting them. The whole time she had been preparing herself for their demise.

"And I get it, Cuddy. It's like my fucking leg. It doesn't work how I want it to work. It hurts me. So I curse the fucking thing. And I think sometimes about amputation—if we'd done it, if I should choose to do it now. But I don't want to cut it off. I need it there. I need it available because maybe somehow I can fix it one day. Or learn to tolerate it." Cuddy was hugging herself tightly now because every time he brought up that defining injury she went back there, to when she held his very life in her hands. "But the thing is," he continued, "I'm not your appendage, Cuddy. You're attached to me and I'm damaged, but I am not yours to keep just because you can't decide." He sighed. "You don't want to lose me, but you're too scared or controlling or equivocal to do this with me."

"I tried! Screw you!" she yelled. She was tired of being positioned as the only one at fault here. "I tried and we fought all the time."

"That's not true," he argued back. "We had fun—"

But she cut him off. "You'd lie to me. And disrespect me. And be a pain in my ass." Then she laid down her trump card. "And you took Vicodin when I needed you."

"I took Vicodin _because_ you needed me!" he yelled. There was a moment of silence. "You kept thinking this was supposed to be easy, Cuddy! But we were working on it, dammit!" He took a breath to calm down. "We were figuring it out, one fight at a time. And you came over here and accused me and I _admitted_ it. I didn't lie, even though you couldn't prove it. I went against my nature because by that time, like a moron, I thought we were solid. I knew it was big, but I thought we would get through it. Until you quit on me."

Cuddy's eyes stung with tears that she refused to let fall. "So now you've quit on me."

He sat back into the couch. "It isn't revenge. It's resignation. I'm tired of wondering every day if I should kiss you… wondering if you want me to." They stared at each other across the expanse of that endless wondering. "It's not the job," House underscored. "It's not a game. I'm quitting _this_." He cleared his throat. "And if you care about me at all," he said, "you'll stop walking in my door in the middle of the night and, for once, just walk out and leave me. For good."

Cuddy's breath. He'd knocked it out of her. On shaky legs she stood up and slowly walked to the door. She paused with her hand on the knob and looked back at him, still seated on the couch looking away from her.

"I do care about you, House. More than you know." She walked out.

"That's the problem," he said into the dusky light. And then, for the first time since the break-up, before he reached for the Vicodin he let himself cry a little.


	2. Chapter 2

**Forgive the formatting in one of these sections. Fanfic has limited options.**

 **Chapter 2**

So the office remained empty—the team assigned to temporary positions—and Cuddy stalled deciding what to do about it, much to Foreman's chagrin. She'd walk by it sometimes and couldn't resist looking in. One night she entered and sat at the empty desk in the dark. Wilson was walking by and saw her. He came in.

"Hey," he said tentatively.

"Hey," she sighed.

"What are you doing?"

"Thinking."

"This office has seen a lot of that," Wilson commented. "You wanna talk about it?"

Cuddy considered, but everything in her gut told her she couldn't handle going down this road. If she gave in to what she was feeling, it would overpower her. She was scared of the intensity of her feelings about House.

"I'm just trying to decide if Foreman or Chase should be the new head of diagnostics," she lied.

Wilson nodded, not buying it. "That's not easy," he offered.

Cuddy got up and started walking out, brushing her hands together. "Yeah, well, that's why they pay me the big bucks, right? To make the tough calls." Wilson followed her out and toward the elevator.

"Doesn't mean it's easy," he called after her. He watched the elevator doors slide shut over her face, her jaw defiantly jutting out.

 **[H] [H] [H]**

House lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the rain pouring down outside. He intentionally made himself sprawl because over the months he had trained himself to sleep on one side and was now trying to undo it.

His leg hurt. His brain hurt. His heart hurt. He was low on Vicodin and trying to figure out how to get Wilson to hook him up with a scrip. He got up finally, sleep eluding him, and padded out to his piano.

As he played, he considered whether he'd made the right move, leaving PPTH. The fact was, he was bored. No cases. No team dynamic. No Cuddy. All of his obsessions were over and his manic brain was trying to find something to chew on. He played some of the most difficult pieces he knew, but it didn't help.

The fact was, in his effort to get free, he'd become trapped. He was a fish who's jumped onto the bank and was flopping around in a futile effort to breathe and swim again. He picked up his phone. It was two in the morning. He thought about calling her. Why did he still think about calling her?

He called someone else.

 **[H] [H] [H]**

"He's in rehab?" Cuddy asked, shocked. "Why?" She'd finally asked Wilson about House, several weeks later. She'd waited, somehow thinking he'd want that. It was out of respect, not out of a lack of desire to know about him.

"Well, I don't know if I should be telling you this," Wilson leaned in conspiratorially over their coffee shop table. "But he has a little problem with a drug called Vicodin."

Cuddy frowned at him. "So now he's training you to be a heartless smartass?"

Wilson smiled sympathetically. "Aww, sorry. But what do you mean 'Why?' I'm too thrilled to question it."

"I just wonder what it's about. A sudden interest in clean living?"

Wilson shook his head. "Doubt it," he said through a mouthful of scone. "He still drinks like a fish and I suspect he still gets hookers like a… I dunno. He'd have a witty simile."

"He has his appetites," Cuddy agreed, trying to push the image from her mind. She thought about when she saw him last, over a month ago. That horrible visit. "What pushed him over the edge?"

"I don't know," Wilson admitted. "He just said he's tired of it having control over him. That it's holding him back. From what, I don't know."

"Happiness," she mused.

"If that's possible for House."

They sat there for a minute contemplating that idea: House happy.

"I mean in the long run," Wilson clarified. "I've seen him happy in spurts." Cuddy considered the men's long relationship. Of all the people to choose as his sole companion and confidant, House chose warm, tender-hearted, lovesick, idealistic, righteous James Wilson. She wondered why. How did that work?

"How much do you know about him, Wilson? About his whole life?" she asked. Wilson looked confused. "Like his childhood. His feelings. Friendship stuff."

Wilson shrugged. "I know all of it, I think," he said confidently. "He tells _me_ the most, in general, and even more when he's drunk or high. And I'm not too ethical to refrain from exploiting such occasions."

"I just always wondered who he talked to about stuff. If he talked to _anyone_ , that is." Wilson stopped eating and looked serious. "What?" she asked.

"Now I _actually_ don't know if I should tell you this, but… I mean, he feels like he tried to talk to _you._ About 'stuff.'"

Suddenly a mosaic of moments crowded around in Cuddy's mind…

* * *

" _This is important. Right now, we are more important than what's going on at the hospital."_

* * *

" _The only time you're afraid is when you're happy. You just don't expect it to last."_

" _Cuz it doesn't."_

* * *

" _I'm just saying it was an impulsive move."_

" _Don't do this. Why do you have to analyze things to death? Why can't you just... let it be nice?"_

* * *

"What did he say?"

Wilson looked uncomfortable. "Look, this is really something you two should discuss."

"We don't 'discuss' anymore, Wilson. And I just want to know his perspective on it all," she pressured.

Wilson shifted in his seat. "You sure you want to hear this? He's not here to argue with." Cuddy nodded, so Wilson explained as best he could. "He just felt like you kept your distance. Like you didn't want to really do the relationship thing."

* * *

 _So...you break off your engagement, but you won't adjust your schedule._

* * *

 _So, what's the plan for tonight?_

 _Whatever you want._

 _I don't care. Just pick something we'd both enjoy._

 _Yeah? And what would that be exactly?_

 _I don't know. You know what I like. I got to get back to work._

* * *

"And he feels like he made efforts to be different for you. To open up in ways that don't come easily to him.

* * *

 _I'm a moron. But that doesn't mean I-I don't care about you, that I don't think about you, that I don't want you to be happy. I was wrong. You were right. I can do better. Just… give me a chance._

* * *

"He thinks you wanted him to just shut up…"

* * *

 _I'm not gonna dump you because we like different food or books or music. On the other hand, I might dump you if you don't talk to me when you have a problem with our relationship._

 _I know you believe that now... But the fact is—_

 _Who cares about common? Common is boring._

* * *

 _You're not scheduled for clinic duty now._

 _I had some free time. I owed four hours._

 _Don't you have a case?_

 _Yeah._

 _Then don't worry about it._

 _Are you a Stepford doctor?_

 _If you're busy, you don't need to be down here._

 _You're serious._

 _Yep. Get out of here_ _._

* * *

"…and be good."

* * *

 _Why would I give up one who definitely works for one who might work?_

 _Because I asked you to._

 _That's not really an argument, now, is it?_

 _I won't see you until you stop seeing her._

* * *

 _Get me proof._

 _I've given you…_

 _Proof! Get me proof he has hep C, and then you can give him hep A._

 _I can't._

 _You'll figure something out._

* * *

 _Wait. I'm sorry she's sick. I'm not sorry I'm off the case._

 _You're not off the case._

* * *

"He thinks you wouldn't hear him out on things, but just pushed him away."

* * *

 _This was business. I wouldn't lie to you about something personal._

 _Well, you don't get to lie to me about anything. I can't compartmentalize my life like that._

 _Well, maybe you should practice, 'cause it comes in handy._

 _I think you should go._

* * *

 _Buy you breakfast?_

 _No, thanks._

 _You can pay… if it's starting to feel like I'm carrying you._

 _House, stop._

 _When I was dying… you realized that a little white lie between coworkers wasn't such a big deal._

 _Yeah, and that was true… when you were dying._

* * *

 _You can't apologize, we can't talk._

* * *

"Really," Wilson summarized, "He mostly talks about it like he was foolish for thinking it would work. That he should have seen your resistance sooner and cut his losses."

* * *

 _I have been completely open with you._

 _You won't let me sleep over. You basically haven't introduced me to your daughter._

 _But do you want to spend time with her?_

 _Honestly… before this, I'd have said no. But… yeah. How are we ever gonna be a couple if you keep hiding her from me?_

 _House… I need to protect her. I let you into her life, and you go away…_

 _Call it what it is. I'm not the only one who's holding back._

* * *

"He thinks he was way more into it than you were, and that he should have seen that."

* * *

 _We obviously have something we need to discuss._

 _Now is not a good time._

 _If you're mad because you don't feel you're getting the necessary amount of "affection," all you have to do is ask._

 _Seriously, not now._

 _What is your problem?_

 _You! You are my problem. You are the most selfish, self-centered son of a bitch on the face of the planet. And I'm sick of it. I'm just… done. I can't deal with you anymore._

* * *

 _I_ _am drunk. And I'm also right. You have made me a worse doctor. And people are gonna die because of that. And… you… are totally worth it. If I had to choose between… saving everyone and loving you and being happy… I choose you. I choose being happy with you. I will always choose you._

* * *

Cuddy felt sick and couldn't touch more of her food. "House is…" was all she could say about her thinking. "I think I was… am… scared of him. Aren't you?"

"Scared of him?" Wilson took a sip of his coffee. "I've felt a lot of things about House, and been scared _for_ him, for sure. But of him? No. He's just a messed up guy with a lot of shit to work out. I'm probably more messed up than him because my hobby is watching him work it out."

"Why?" Cuddy asked.

Wilson sat back in his chair and looked at her levelly. "He's my friend. I love the guy," he told her plainly. "It's not that hard to go from there. For me, anyway."

 **[H] [H] [H]**

House _was_ working shit out. He sat across from Nolan, his long legs crossed in front of him, fidgeting.

"I'm not a romantic," House proclaimed.

Nolan nodded. "Okay."

"Wilson thinks I secretly am. That I have this hidden belief that love conquers all. He thinks that's why I'm either in a serious relationship or only seeing prostitutes."

"That's what Wilson thinks," Nolan clarified. "What do you think?"

"I don't know. It's probably random. Our moment-to-moment moves and reactions. Who we meet. Who we find ourselves with."

"So love is just… convenience?"

House sighed. "How the hell would I know?"

"Because you've been in love," Nolan pointed out. House didn't argue, so he pressed on. "Was Stacy a case of convenience?"

"In many ways," House responded. "She worked in the same place. She was there, and attractive."

"And that's the formula," Nolan summarized. "What made her attractive?"

"You want her measurements?"

"If that's all you mean by attractive, then you would, in fact, fall in love with prostitutes."

"I don't actually see prostitutes," he clarified. "I mean, I have, but I play it up to Wilson because it makes him so uncomfortable. I haven't done that in a long time."

"That's a great deflection," Nolan noted.

House sighed. "She was smart. And strong. And independent. And she appreciated my… unique personality." He smirked.

"Convenient," Nolan teased. Then he tested the theory further. "Have there been people convenient to be with that you chose not to? People for whom the convenience was not enough?"

House sighed. "There was Cameron. She actively pursued me. And she was attractive. And believe me, I indulged in the hypothetical. But I couldn't make myself want it enough."

"Why, do you think, if it was convenient?"

"She was a child, really. She was always on a quest to prove to me she wasn't, but even that was childish."

"So love isn't just about convenience. There are certain characteristics you require."

"What is the point of this conversation?" House asked, irritated.

"You brought up not being romantic. So we're just exploring what you are instead. Logical? Can you turn love on and off with your intellect and analysis of things?"

"I can never turn it off," he admitted, the words out before he could censor himself. Nolan gave a hand gesture urging him to say more. "I still love Stacy. Hell, I still love Cameron, in whatever pervy paternal-slash-sexual way I loved her. But the thing is, I don't miss them. Cuddy… I still miss her. It's not getting easier." Nolan nodded, revealing no emotions. "Shouldn't it be getting easier?" House asked. "Fucking ibuprofen is getting easier, why isn't this?"

"Maybe it just needs more time," offered Nolan practically.

House shook his head with skepticism. "I don't think so. I think maybe she's the one I won't ever not miss."

"But you're not a romantic."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"How is Mercy now able to afford a diagnostics department?" Wilson asked incredulously, before biting into his burger.

"Maybe they can't," House admitted. "It's a trial-basis thing. We're giving it three months."

"You're unbelievable. You convinced their dean of medicine to create a department for you from rehab?"

"I told you Vicodin was holding me back." He took a fry off Wilson's plate because he'd ordered onion rings.

"Oh, yes, _you_ told _me_ how you needed to get off Vicodin," Wilson sniped. "Hasn't he… I mean, like… heard of you?" he asked, still incredulous.

"You mean of my unparalleled genius?" House asked. "Yes."

"I was referring to your flagrant abuse of authority," Wilson clarified, hitting House's grasping hand with his fork.

"That too," House said. "But I was forthcoming about my pain management problem resulting from emergency surgery."

"Is that what we're calling it these days?"

"I told him I was getting clean and wanted a fresh start and that I'd be better than ever." He wiped his mouth. "Plus, he's uber-competitive with PPTH, so that didn't hurt."

"Huh," Wilson mused. "So, do you get a team?"

"I do. My old team, I hope." He wiggled his eyebrows mischievously.

"You're stealing them?"

"It's not stealing. They're mine."

"That's one perspective," Wilson agreed, restraining himself from presenting Cuddy's. "Do _they_ actually know about this?"

"They will," House promised.

 **[H] [H] [H]**

Cuddy was on a date. It was her fifth date with a teacher she'd met in the grocery store. Fifth date in as many months, though, since she hardly had time for him. She could feel him pressing for more intimacy from her. He would share childhood stories. Talk about his feelings. But it was all so vanilla and placid.

"So they suspended him," he told her. A colleague had gotten in trouble for accusing a kids' parents of helping him cheat on his SATs. "He has to take a leave of absence."

"Did the parents help him cheat?" Cuddy asked.

"Who knows?" The guy shrugged. "But the school thinks it wasn't his place to get involved."

"What do you think?" she asked.

He shrugged again. "I don't really care. I just get my paycheck and stay out of things, you know?"

Cuddy was so bored. She wanted a tirade, a fight, something to engage her with this guy, but he didn't stand for anything. He wanted kids, had a dog, liked skiing. But that was all he was, despite her digging.

"I think I should go," she told him abruptly. He looked taken aback. "I'm sorry. This just isn't working."

 **[H] [H] [H]**

She didn't have to make a decision about the diagnostics department; it was slowly dissolving. Taub had come clean about the move to Mercy first, explaining that he did this job to work with House, and that location was irrelevant.

"Mercy is not nearly as strong of a hospital," Cuddy told him. "Or prestigious." She thought the latter might appeal to a certain side of Taub's nature.

"If I wanted prestige, I'd still be augmenting breasts and driving a Porsche," he told her. "The fact is, I want to work for that lunatic."

"Why?" she asked.

"Why not?"

Thirteen was next. "I don't suppose I can talk you out of it," Cuddy probed. Thirteen shook her head with her characteristic stoicism. "It's not even a permanent situation, from what I hear," Cuddy cautioned.

Thirteen shrugged. "You know House. In his own way, he always takes care of us."

Foreman, true to form, was not leaving and was still angling for the power play. When she ran into him, she couldn't help bringing up the situation and asking, "Why don't you want to follow House?"

Foreman sighed. "I will never be able to control that guy. I can't work like that." Cuddy raised her eyebrows in response and Foreman noted it. "You know what I mean. He's incredible, but… this is just the prudent professional move."

Chase quit the day after Taub and Thirteen. "Chase, are you sure about this?" Cuddy asked. "You could have a bright future here. I was considering having you take over for House." She dangled the offer like a carrot.

"I am sure," Chase insisted.

"But, wouldn't you like to get out from under him? It can't be pleasant to work in the… environment he creates."

"I don't want it to be pleasant," he said plainly. "I want it to be good. And whatever you call what he creates, he makes me a better doctor."

Cuddy considered this, and compared it to Foreman's reaction. "But aren't you always scared of his next crazy move? His unpredictable behavior. Here, you could control things."

"I'm not scared of House," Chase answered. "I've had too many years with him to be scared anymore. And I respect him too much to pretend I can replace him." He watched Cuddy, her wheels turning and her brow furrowing in thought. "Face it, Dr. Cuddy. There's only one House."

 **[H] [H] [H]**

It was House's birthday. Cuddy wished she could forget that, but she couldn't. She wondered where he was, whether he was having any semblance of a celebration. Probably Chase had done something... a cake at least. Maybe a stripper. She wanted to call him, but thought better of it. She wanted to forget him, but couldn't manage it. It was like it had all happened yesterday.

It was a big day for her too. She'd recently had her 360-degree annual review The input of different people she worked with—board members, doctors, nurses, patients—were sent to the chairman of the board and he synthesized the contributions (along with other data) into a comprehensive review of Cuddy's performance. She'd had such a hectic day though, she hadn't had a chance to look at the results. Now that she was home, freshly showered, and had Rachel in bed, she had time. She opened her email.

A bunch of boring statistics were cited: monies raised, a decreasing number of malpractice suits, statistics from patient satisfaction surveys, etc. But at the end there was a narrative statement about her:

 _Dr. Cuddy's most valuable characteristics are her tenacity and perseverance. As the leader of a large, bureaucratic institution, it is vital that she remain undeterred by challenges, resilient in the face of setbacks, and committed to making things work, whatever it takes. In the work Dr. Cuddy does, come what may—from unanticipated missteps to outright mistakes—failure is not an option. She is fearless._

She sat there, considering herself from the perspective of others. She reflected on how she lived her life, the standards she held herself to, the way she approached challenging situations…

Suddenly she stood up and began getting dressed and calling her nanny while simultaneously applying makeup in a frenzied whirlwind. She was focused and determined and now couldn't wait to do this. To try. But as she bent over her sink finishing up the second black line over her lashes, she looked at herself; really looked at herself.

It shouldn't matter what she looked like; she wasn't going to seduce him into this. She was just going to be honest and do what she did in every other realm of her life. Work it.

She stopped primping and went to the front door to anxiously wait for the nanny. Once she arrived, she drove to House's to wish him a happy birthday.

 **[H] [H] [H]**

Two hours and ten minutes after House officially turned a year older, he heard a knock on his door. On the other side stood Cuddy, in a tight pencil skirt, baggy tee shirt, and flip flops. Her hair was wet, her eyes were carefully lined, and she wore not a trace of lipstick. Her heart pounded in her chest and her knees were weak. "I am fearless," she told herself.

The door swung open and there stood House, in jeans and a tee shirt, his hair shorter and messy. His blue eyes betrayed a hint of surprise, but he said nothing, his hand on the doorknob.

"Hi," she began. He still said nothing. "You were right that I don't fight for you until I have to. Until I'm going to lose you. And you were right that I keep thinking it's supposed to be easy. And I don't listen to your perspective because I'm scared of it. I'm scared it will lead to you concluding that we don't belong together. And the irony is, all that… all that I did and didn't do just led me to losing you anyway. Really losing you this time. But you're wrong, House. If I care about you, I won't walk out and leave you. I'll stay. So I'm here to fix this." She took a deep trembling breath. "I'm here to do the work, House… if you'll let me try. Because we both made mistakes, but _we_ were not a mistake. I refuse to believe that." She swallowed hard. "We are not a mistake."

She waited and at first they just stared at each other. She was terrified he'd close the door in her face, or worse, scold her for re-opening his wounds. He looked at her earnest face and tried to process all she'd said. They both wanted, and longed, and missed, and feared, and second-guessed themselves. Then his eyebrows knit together the slightest bit and at the same moment they lunged for each other.

He enveloped her in his arms like a treasure he'd finally found. She leaned into him to stay upright because she was shaking so hard. They kissed with an unrestrained passion that made any other kiss they'd shared pale. His hands wove into her hair and pressed into her back, pulling her closer and closer. She held his face and basked in the familiar scratch of his stubble along her skin.

"Please come back to work," she said into his mouth.

He laughed quietly. "You've made some dramatic HR changes, I see," he said back.

He stumbled backward, pulling her with him as they continued kissing. The smell of her, the feeling of her familiar shape in his arms, the sound of her breath… it was unraveling him. He'd thought this was gone forever.

As they gradually made their way deeper into his apartment, Cuddy saw a movement near the couch and her lips stilled against House's. She saw Wilson trying to sneak toward the door.

"Wilson!" she shouted, as if he'd appeared out of nowhere.

He stood there, awkwardly hunched in a tiptoe position. "Hey, Cuddy. I was… uh, was just leaving." He couldn't help grinning mischievously.

Cuddy looked at House, who was ignoring Wilson completely and just looking at Cuddy. Wilson made it to the door. "Happy birthday, House," Wilson called. "Congrats on the job offer."

"Bye, Wilson," House mumbled, still staring at Cuddy. The door closed. Cuddy looked up at him and started laughing.

"You thought I'd be alone on my birthday?" he joked.

"I was worried I'd find you with a paid companion."

House rolled his eyes. "Wilson has a fetish for me having fetishes." He pushed her back and looked her up and down. "Speaking of fetishes, this is quite an ensemble you've put together here," he teased.

"I can explain," she started.

"I don't give a crap what you're wearing," he told her neck when he pulled her close again. "As long as I can locate the zippers and buttons." He unzipped her skirt as he said it and she helped him shimmy it down her legs as they stumbled toward the bedroom.

When they reached the bed, he pulled her shirt over her head, and she returned the favor. But when they stood there in the dim light—their skin pressed together again, their arms entwined, their hands reaching—they paused. Suddenly the rush of lust and relief made space for the other feelings.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"I'm so scared," he whispered back. "But I miss you. All the time."

"House, we will work. Every day, every moment, I will work on us. I am tenacious and perseverant. I am undeterred in the face of a challenge."

"Are you reading self-help books?" he asked.

"Shut up." She looked at him with seriousness.

House bent to press his forehead to hers. "I promise you," he told her, his heart in his throat and on his sleeve, "I will never cheat on you. You're it, Cuddy. The one. But please, promise me—" he began, but she cut him off to make the promise that she knew he needed. That he deserved.

"I promise I will not leave you. I will not leave you again." Her eyes filled with tears and this time she let them fall. "We _are_ like your leg, House. Your leg was part of your identity, both on a vanity level and a deeper level. It was part of your intentions for your life. Lopping the thing off was just too much to bear, even though everyone told you that it was foolish not to." She saw him watching her talk, his eyes flitting from her eyes to her mouth. "You stand by your decision because even if it hurts and missteps, it works. And you… you are part of my identity. My vanity. My intentions. This relationship is what it is, and whether people think it is the right decision or not, I do. We work." She ran her hand over his cheek. "Even if we limp."

House smiled. "Hot baths and massages help."

She smiled back. "So let's try more of that. For starters."

He kissed her again and they fumbled onto the bed, too wrapped up in each other to disengage their limbs properly. As they tumbled together onto the sheets, their mouths found inches of skin from memory—the part that tickled or elicited a sigh or moan; the small area that tasted like the person they hadn't stopped loving.

They lay on the bed next to each other, propped on their sides. House slowly ran his hand up and down the curves of her body, alternatingly taking in the sight of her nakedness and looking at her face, checking that this was real.

He was thinking it so he said it. "God, I missed you," he confessed. "I thought it would get easier over time. But it didn't."

"I didn't know how to find you again," she told him.

He kissed her gently and rolled her back, unhooking her bra and tossing it somewhere into the dim room. "I was right where you left me." He shifted over her as she pulled off his pants. When her naked legs were around his naked hips he let himself fully exhale and let go of any remaining hesitations. The truth was, no matter how far they moved away from each other, they always came back together. That, he supposed, was his answer for Nolan. That was love.

He told her this as he moved inside her. He murmured things about aching and obsessing and longing. She breathed against his neck again, ran her nose along his jaw. She answered his whispered proclamations with her own, about regretting, and hoping, and promising. His hands slid between her back and the mattress and he held her completely when she came beneath him, tearing up again at the relief of having realized what had been in front of her the whole time. When he pressed his head to her chest and pushed with abandon, moaning his own climax into the sliver of air between them, she felt how he was trusting her with his heart in a way that didn't come naturally to him, but came naturally to them. She fully took up the responsibility of it this time. So when he moaned, "Cuddy," she answered "I'm here."


End file.
